


In a Short Lived Manner

by somedayisours



Series: Fanfiction.net Can Suck My— [5]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Internal Monologue, It's not how it's mentioned in the book, Murder, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2020-04-06 11:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19061680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somedayisours/pseuds/somedayisours
Summary: Maysilee Donner at two moments in time.





	In a Short Lived Manner

In district 12, there is an uncomfortably large number of tragedies that can befall a person. No matter how much money you have, how pale your skin is, or even how blue your eyes are, District 12 gets to you in the end.

Slowly but surely, all of District 12's inhabitance are dying. There's coal dust in the air coating our lungs and making it harder to breathe with every breath. The lack of food even fills us, Townies, with fear. Loss is so easy, death is so easy. If we aren't taken by the Games there are other causes, cave-ins, over-doses, poisoning, sickness, or starvation.

One day I'm sure that my sister's name will be called, and she'll be marched away to be slaughtered for sport. But the truth is that she will slip, she will try morphine or alcohol or maybe even drink the poison under the sink, reserved for cleaning.

We are all expired food, waiting to be tossed out.

"Maysilee!"

I flinch.

"Sorry, I'll be down."

I'm not sorry, no, I am scared, angry, and nervous. I want to sit next to my mother's bed, run my hand through her golden hair, and watch as her jean-blue eyes take in the sight of her room like she does every day. Her body permanently unmoving all the while.

"Bye Ma." I lean down, placing a silent kiss on her cheek and then stand.

My father is waiting at the door, dressed in his best clothes, his golden hair is slicked back, and his shirt crisp. The white of it blinds me momentarily.  
And I can't help but think that it's the same colour as the slips of paper in the Reaping bowls.

•

I haven't even stepped off the pedestal before the other kid is on top of me.

The emerald grass is soft and thick when I fall back, and the boy is on top of me, his fist cracking like lightning on my face. The taste blood blooms in my mouth.

I scream, my nose isn't broken, but it hurts enough to blind me momentarily, the world spinning in dizzying circles.

He hits me again, and I reach out blindly, I feel his face, my fingers trailing up his jaw and over his cheeks. He hits me again, and my hands find his neck. I tighten them, the image of my mother, broken as the black-haired Seam man stands over her body, his grey eyes flashing in the moonlight.

I scream, not with fear, no, it's a battle cry, and I'm moving. The boy is off me in one second, and in the next, I'm on top of him.

He struggles, but I have the upper hand now. Jabbing my finger into his grass-green eye, I force myself to ignore the sickening squelch and the scream that follows. He struggles, but my hands have once again closed tightly around his throat, I'm winning, and he's getting weaker. It goes on like that until he stops moving completely.

I clamber off him, my foot catching on his body in my haste to flee the scene. I dare not stop until I am alone.

The cannons go off. Nineteen.

One is my doing.


End file.
